Klatchian Coffee
by Klatchian Coffee
Summary: Elsie Mags the seamstress, no, really, she actually is, is new to AnkhMorpork, hates it when people talk to her chest and is about to find herself in the middle of a dangerous new wave of fashion. Sorry about the test chapter the REAL chapter 3 is now up!
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: Hey, all! This is my new account, designed to be dedicated to Discworld only. I'm not really writing this one for the plot since it's my first fic that swims atop the Great A'tuin, but I'm trying to immerse myself in the Pratchettesque style.

(Dis)claimer: Unfortunately, of everyone mentioned in this chapter so far the only ones who belong to me are Lynda and Elsie Mags and the girl who opens the door to the House of Negotiable Affection (and possibly, the water in the river Ankh since no one else seems to want it, or in any case, be able to pry chunks of it out). The rest belongs to Pratchett himself and Harper Torch publishing. Here goes!

* * *

The stars are bright—

—here at the base of the magical fields of the Ramtops, reigning over the night with peaks of wisdom, where monks high in the crests seek peace, freedom and the chords with which the universe started—

—here in Al Khali, small city overlooking the peaceful shores of the Circle Sea, where the last rays of sluggish Discworld light are annoyingly failing to disappear, and merchants are still seizing chances to sell carpets and lamps and meat-inna-

bun—

—here in the Agaten Empire, where peasants scurry about their late night duties under the twinkling lights, obedience radiating from their every pore—

—but not here in the Shades of Ankh-Morpork, the festering wound of civilization, where a dark figure is disposing of a body in the—for lack of a better word(1)—water of the Ankh river.

There is not a splash. There is a thud. The body takes several minutes to sink in the fresh spring sewage of the river.

The spirit of Tartarus Smith, hovering over a bridge, watched the body being thrown with an increasingly sinking feeling.

"Oh dear," he said. "That was me, wasn't it?"

A voice from behind him immersed itself into his senses without the consent of his eardrums.

YES, it said. I AM AFRAID SO.

Tartarus spun around and glared at the seven-foot skeleton armed with a ghostly pure-white horse and a very tall, very sharp weapon. He thought better of it. He placed on his face a delicate expression of pleading obedience.

"Er… Does that mean I'm dead?"

GENERALLY SPEAKING, YES.

"But… but who will take care of the children?"

YOU HAD NO CHILDREN.

"Well, you know what I mean, it's the whole spirit of the thing. So you're Death, are you?"

YES.

Tartarus examined the framework of the hooded figure that floated in the fog before him. "Funny." He swallowed. "I never thought you the type to be wearing a pink scarf."

It seemed to Tartarus that small spots of red flushed across Death's cheekbones, nicely toned to the rose sash tied around his neck. He assumed it was a blush. He _hoped _it was a blush, considering all other alternatives.

WELL, YOU SEE, ER… I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN INTERESTED IN HUMAN AFFAIRS, AND I WAS TOLD THERE WAS TO BE A BALL AT THE PATRICIAN'S PALACE… Death began, and then realized that one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse was not obliged to explain himself to humans who had just died. He drew himself up.

IT IS TIME. The whole effect was a bit less impressive now.

"Time for what?" Tartarus asked desperately, although he could already feel his ghostly remnants begin to waver like a vase in immediate danger of toppling. He held his hand up. If there had been any moonlight visible at all in the thick smog of the Shades, it would have shown eerily through his smoky fingers.

TIME TO LEAVE. Death's scythe came whirring down in a fury of silver and Tartarus's soul disappeared from the face of the Discworld.

* * *

Elsie Mags approached the ornate building by means of the cobbled front walkway, shuffling her feet slightly in the wispy moonlight. This wasn't proper moonlight. Not like back in the Ramtops where giant slices of yellow cheese loomed over peaks like a mother looming over her toddler. Now that was real moonlight. None of this milky white stuff filtered through the haze and pollution of a big city.

She hoisted her sewing basket from one shoulder to the other, wishing she hadn't thought to pack everything she could into a picnic basket. Accumulated yarn could, contrary to common belief, pack quite a weight into one bag. Her mother had always been able to lift it. Then again, there was no limit to how much a single, wiry old lady could lift at any given time.

Her thoughts strayed. Ankh-Morpork, described by many as a city with one thousand hearts and at least three times as many people. They had some funny habits here. Like the way their gazes tended to bypass your face, and you found yourself holding a conversation with someone talking to your chest. Especially when she came to mention that she was a seamstress.

"Oh, a seamstress, _ahem hem hem_, are you, young lassie?" The man she had spoken to in the streets for directions to the Seamstress's Guild had given a sort of knowing chuckle, a wink that he apparently thought was quite seductive but actually made him look like a walrus in pain, and an approving glance at the area in between her neck and her stomach. "Well, that'd be jus' a few blocks thatta way then turn right. Huge building. Can't miss it. Hope to see you working sometime, eh?" He offered her a suggestive eyebrow-waggling that made her want to ask him why he twitched so much.

Her mother, a simple country woman who'd spent her entire life at the base of the Ramtops and loved to appear more intelligent than she really was, adored rambling on about the wonderful seamstresses of Ankh-Morpork. Elsie, young back then, would listen in rapture as her mother raved about gorgeous evening gowns and rich fabrics tailored by the young ladies of the double city. Lynda Mags, a few years after giving birth to Elsie, had overheard two traveling merchants talking about the excellent seamstresses of Ankh-Morpork and immediately taken to the idea, ignoring the evocative comments that followed. Elsie, who had shown a lavish talent for all things sewn, stitched and embroidered at quite an early age, had grown listening to captivating tales of extravagant dresses and elegant skirts that all the fashionable nobles wore.

Now, at the ripe young age of sixteen, she was here, having trudged through several miles of cabbages in Sto Plains to arrive, and discovering that all is not what it seems to be.

She paused at the huge oak doors, took a deep breath and heaved up the giant wooden knocker in the shape of—whipped cream?—letting it fall with an echoing thud.

The door opened slightly, and a heavily made-up young woman peered out through the door. "House of Negotiable Affection," she said smartly, looking Elsie up and down. "How may we assist your pleasures?"

* * *

Angua sniffed. Black dye, commonly extracted from a certain type of sweetgrass found on the islands nearer to the Rim. Black minx fur from the colder regions that neared the Hub. Assorted gold jewelry, painted black. Assassin's wear. Young assassin's wear, the kind of outfit that naïve children chose to wear before they realized style didn't matter when you killed—er, _inhumed _somebody.

Something else lingered in the air, besides the ordinary Shades perfume of sweat and blood and filth. The sergeant werewolf sniffed again. Ah, yes. Guilt.

Whoever beat the late Tartarus Smith over the head with a heavy stick, stabbed him through the heart and threw his body on(2) the river had a reason beyond an assassin's standard motivation.(3)

She heard silent footsteps behind her in her heightened state of senses and turned to greet Carrot as he jogged up the alleyway, hand on his sword.

"Went by the Assassin's Guild," the six-foot dwarf gasped, leaning over to catch his breath. "They've got no one under the name of Tartarus Smith. They didn't even know he existed, let alone have a price above his head. Have you found anything?"

Angua growled a canine affirmation and turned, sleek muscles rippling under brown fur. She trotted off into a couple of alleyways, Carrot close behind.

She stopped, and nudged something on the ground. Carrot paled as he knelt to pick it up.

"We'd better go see Commander Vimes," he said, trying to remain calm as possible. Angua yelped in positive.

"I'm sure he'll want to know about this."

* * *

(1)Actually, there are a lot of better words that come to mind for the muck that passes for a river in the banks of the Ankh. Just none of them are fit to write on this page.

(2)You will find that most bodies are thrown _on _the Ankh, not _in _the Ankh. It is quite impossible to throw a body into the Ankh unless you wait several minutes for it to sink, a feat equally impossible in the Shades unless you are a snarling werewolf or Captain Carrot, whom criminals greet amiably as he is arresting them.

(3)Namely, money.

* * *

Author's Note: Ah, the suspense is killing me! Next chapter may be delayed a bit while I work out the actual plot, and while I wait for a decent number of reviews (five or six) so I know my beautiful talents are not being wasted on deaf ears (or blind eyes, in any case). Thanks!

KC


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Well, this is chapter two. After much thought, I have decided what I am going to parody. Fits in quite well, I think. It actually makes sense. I'm glad I had the sense to make Elsie Mags a seamstress; else my plotline wouldn't have worked. What is it, you ask? Muahahaha! I shall never tell! You'll just have to come back and read the rest of the chapters. Which I know you will. Else I'll knock you into the valleys of knurd.

Additional Note: I will be temporarily blending Mrs. Cake and Mrs. Palm until I find some other reasonable explanation as to why Mrs. Cake has an inn. It is imperative to the story that it be Mrs. Cake whom owns the inn that Elsie finds herself at. Don't ask me why because I don't know either. It simply is.

(Dis)Claimer: Oh, how I wish that horrid 'dis' in front of that beautiful 'claimer' would vanish never to be seen again. But someday I'll be writing my own books and you all will have to disclaim me… (evil smile) For now, however, Carrot, Vimes, Mrs. Cake, Mrs. Cake's Hat, Fred Colon, the Brass Bridge, Vetinari and Bloody Stupid Johnson do not belong to me. Yet. Elsie Mags is thoroughly and entirely mine. All mine. Thank you.

* * *

"Carrot?"

"Yessir?"

Vimes gave the object laying on his desk a long, hard stare, growing increasingly uneasy under Captain Carrot's anticipatory ogle.

He sighed. "You've always been a sharp young lad."

"Yessir."

"Always directly on top of things."

"Yessir. I try, sir."

"Never let a crime pass you by."

"Nossir."

Vimes sighed again; a heavy and weary sort of sigh, laden with the coffee that he wished was alcohol. He leaned back on his chair, tilting back on two legs and gave the object an experimental glare in case it suddenly turned into something else. It didn't.

"Carrot…"

"Yessir?"

"You know, you're one of my best officers."

"Thank you, sir."

"Except when it comes to Clues."

"Yessir. Sorry, sir."

"But you always were a smart one."

"Thank you, sir."

"So why, then," he paused, and moistened his lips, "have you brought me a pair of pants?"

* * *

Elsie ran out into the lavish courtyard of the House in fury, ignoring the slight rain that was beginning to fall. Seamstresses, indeed! How dare they mislead her into such a filthy trap! How dare they assume that any respectable young lady such as young Miss Mags would sink down to such a level! How dare they!

She swung open the iron gate with quite surprising strength for her rather slight build, ignoring the calls of the girl who had shown her in. She slammed it behind her, relishing the great ugly scrape of metal and rust and ran, across the slick cobblestones and through the rain that was suddenly pouring harder and harder. How dare all those men believe that she was so poor as to offer her body for a bit of food! How dare they! So great was her fury she did not notice when great noble houses began to shrink and impoverish, when well-paved roads became narrower and dirtier and streetlights began to flicker.

But the rain had dampened her flame of vehemence as the torrents continued to drench her, and eventually she slowed, the anger replaced by curiosity. Here was a part of town, not quite the Shades she had been warned about, but ratty all the same, with massive stone gargoyles that peered at her in their extreme patience. As she walked, she might have imagined it, but she heard the feathers of a pigeon alight on one of the statues, then let out half a desperate squawk. She whirled around. The gargoyles were still, glaring innocently at her with big stone eyes, but she couldn't help noticing the few feathers floating down from a rocky jaw that hadn't been there before.

The rain did not ease as she trudged on, and her practicality quickly overshadowed her indignant rage. She must find a place to stay. After a few more hesitant turns down a few suspicious-looking alleyways, she came upon a creaking wooden sign that said simply:

INN.

She climbed up the front stairs and had poised her hand to knock when the door flew open and she was greeted by a Hat. It had flowers on it. It spoke to her.

"Yes, dear, plenty," said the Hat.

"Excuse me, but do you have any rooms available?"

"Just a few dollars a night."

"How much do they cost?"

"Mrs. Cake."

"Who are you?"

Elsie stopped, and ran through the last few lines of conversation in her head.

"No, nothing of that sort," said the wiry woman she had only just noticed was under the Hat.

"So you'd be a shamaness, then?"

"Not a witch, neither, though I've got some good friends who are."

"A witch, by any chance? I've heard of them"

"Ah, Elsie. A hearty name, I've always said."

"My name is Elsie Mags."

"Yes, I have powers of premonition. Oh, dear, is it on again?"

There was a pause.

"Come on, then, ask it already," snapped Mrs. Cake. "I hates it when you young people make me answer questions you never ask. There you go, lassie."

"Do you have mystical powers of premonition?"

Mrs. Cake's face screwed up a bit in concentration. "There we be," she said after a few seconds. "Everything's all right now. Oh dear, don't keep standing out there in the rain, come inside before you catch your death of cold."

And in this manner, Elsie came to stay at the humble abode of Mrs. Cake.

* * *

Colon sighed deeply as he took refuge under the Brass Bridge, lighting a smoke and reflecting on the tranquility of the rain. Or rather, on the lack of tranquility. Unlike Ankh-Morpork's usual unpleasant drizzle this was a real storm, heavy and violent with a side order of lightning. He relaxed a bit as he watched the smoke rings disintegrate as they hit the metal underside of the bridge, feeling not at all guilty about not doing his coppering like Vimes insisted he do. After all, there were sure to be some landmark thieves out there somewhere. You never know when a couple of bandits might well make off with the bridge, and then the citizens of Ankh-Morpork would simply have to walk across the river. (1)

Fred Colon. Big old Fred Colon. Just a copper, amiable and loose and not fit enough to catch you if you nicked something out of his pockets and walked away. He shrunk down farther and glowered at all who dare laugh at him. He needed a new image. He needed to reconstruct his personality. He needed a doughnut.

Fred sulked under the Brass Bridge, treating himself to a quiet smoke and thinking up ways to make himself different.

Lord Havelock Vetinari pored over political documents by candlelight in the shadows of his study, sipping steaming black coffee from a mug.

It was Klatchian coffee.

It is well known that coffee is a remedy for being drunk, if you take a large dosage along with a cold shower. Less well known is the fact that, even while drunk to the point of retching, a couple sips of Klatchian coffee could catapult you past drunk, straight through sobriety and into knurd.

Vetinari had swum the misty oceans of drunkenness and tread the iron valleys of sobriety, and he found he didn't much like either. Vetinari was one of the few men on the Disc that could actually drink Klatchian coffee without driving himself to madness, and very likely the only man in the Universe who preferred knurd to anything else. It helped him think clearly.

Knurd was a sort of super-enhanced form of sobriety. The average man could hardly stand being sober most of his life, let alone knurd. But Vetinari was quite different, as you may come to see. Quite different indeed.

Now he examined the tiny print that covered the sheets of paper on his desk. From these each night he derived who his enemies were, (2) who his friends were, (3) what tactics he should use and the like. After all, as the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork you had to be either very intelligent or insane. Vetinari prided himself on being a bit of both.

He paused, and looked out the window over the courtyard that had been designed by a certain Bloody Stupid Johnson. The sundial, miraculously, hadn't exploded at noon that day and was ticking away like a demented time bomb. It might have had something to do with the rainy weather they had been having lately. However, even with a thick cloud cover, the sundial always managed to do the one thing it could do reliably: keep entirely the wrong time.

He turned back to the tedious writings and again immersed himself in politics, taking a sip of the Klatchian coffee every once in a while. Some catastrophe or another was about to hit Ankh-Morpork again; he could feel it in his bones. However, for now he concentrated on the doings of his latest enemies, content.

* * *

(1) Something certainly possible, but not very appealing.

(2) Quite a lot of people.

(3) Almost nobody.

* * *

Author's Note: All right. If you've managed to read this far, please have the decency to leave a review with some respectable constructive criticism. Please no 'this iz gud plz update or I kill u.' I appreciate the sentiment and all, but it doesn't really help my writing style. Even 'ur style sux get a new 1' is better than the former. Anyway, hope you enjoyed this second chapter of mine! Am I staying true to Pratchett? I've studied his books for a long time but I'm afraid I haven't go the whole 'surprise them at the end of the paragraph through dialogue instead of telling them like an idiot' thing. I did try, in the last chapter with the pink scarf, and in this chapter with the pants. Funny how I love to use articles of clothing, though you'll find that that's what this whole story is about. They're definitely not ordinary pants…

Thanks to my wonderful reviewers!

KC


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: Well, I typed up this chapter, didn't like it, and then deleted it. Typed it up again, liked it, and then little brother deleted it by mistake. Typed it up a third time, and here it is. I hope you appreciate it after all I've gone through to get this to you. I'll be trying to see if I can update on a schedule, but I find I'm depending more on the number of reviews that I have than the actual day of the week. In the future, however, I may not be this punctual since this is spring break and school will be starting again soon. By the way, how would you write a Jersey accent? I've had some trouble with it and I've settled with a semi-Bostonian accent for the nasally voice in the Assassin's Guild. It will be changing soon, though, as soon as I figure it out. Any help? Oh, and ix-nay on the Alm-pay. No more Mrs. CakePalm. Mrs. Cake now has an inn and that's it, no questions asked. Okay? Okay. I thought so. By the way, sorry for the test chapter earlier, my computer was acting funky and not working. So if you reviewed the test chapter to tell me it was working, I'll turn my anonymous blocker off so you can review again if it doesn't let you. Because I know you all are just dying to review me. (evil grin) Anyway, enough boring you with my mindless rambling, onto the story.

(Dis)Claimer: Elsie belongs to me. Tartarus Smith belongs to me (the one who died in the Shades and the one who died in Quirm). The Assassin, Iggy the troll and the disembodied nasally voice belong to me. And the pants belong to me. That is just about it. Sad, isn't it? Everyone else including Vimes, Vimes's silver matchbox, Carrot, the Assassin's Guild, Angua, the Shades, the Year of the Incontinent Buffalo (actually, funnily enough that does belong to me), Cheery and Reg and Fred and Nobby, Mrs. Cake, Mrs. Cake's Hat (or the Hat's Mrs. Cake), and Discworld all belong to Terry Pratchett and Harper Torch Publishing. Thank you!

* * *

Vimes stared at the abominable spelling and scrawling handwriting on Carrot's hasty report, trying in vain to fight off a nasty headache and wishing desperately he had time to go outside and have a quiet smoke. The silver matchbox he'd received from Sybil was burning a hole in his pocket. 

"So…" he commented slowly, his lips moving ever so slightly as he attempted to make out the unruly writing. "There was an assassin in the Shades."

"No sir." Carrot shook his head, standing in front of Vimes's desk, his arms crossed and one hand absentmindedly massaging the handle of his massive sword. "Not an assassin."

Vimes paused, raising his head to meet Carrot's gaze with an air of tired determination. "Then what was it, Captain?" he asked. "And this better be good, I've got a terrible headache—"

"It was an Assassin, sir." Young and naïve as Carrot was, his honest smile and youthful body (1) kept people from strangling him on the spot when he made such comments. Despite bulging muscles and deadly sword, Vimes was teetering on the edge of murdering his Captain.

"Angua smelled it," Carrot offered earnestly. "Definitely an Assassin."

A glance at his watch told Vimes it was quite later than Sybil would like, (2) and past experiences had helped his realized that unnecessary arguing with Carrot could end up quite long and grueling and one-sided. Long and grueling because it took an abnormally long time to figure out that Carrot had actually been agreeing with you this whole time. One-sided because you were the only one shouting. Carrot tended to take abuse with that candid smile still plastered onto his face, unable to comprehend that you were actually trying to insult him.

"So there was an Assassin in the Shades," Vimes tried again, choosing not to ask how on the Disc Angua could smell capital letters. "A young Assassin. Odd. They don't usually go into the Shades, do they?"

"No offense to those who live there, sir, but they're not the kind of people other people would pay to kill."

"Point taken. And he murdered this chap—" Vimes scanned the report again, "Tartarus Schmidt."

"Smith. Sorry for the handwriting, sir, I was in a bit of a hurry."

"Any apparent motives?"

"According to Guild records only one Tartarus Smith ever existed on the Disc."

"And?"

"And he died way back in the Year of the Incontinent Buffalo. In Quirm."

"I see. Anything else that would have been a motive? Money in his wallet, perhaps? Or a murder for personal reasons?"

"Angua says he probably hadn't seen tuppence for months. As for the personal reasons, we have no idea." Carrot shook his head hopelessly.

"I suppose it would be too much to ask if Angua had caught a whiff of the murderer?"

"He had a peppermint in his mouth. She could make out clothes and dyes, but nothing concrete."

Vimes sighed. Whatever gods happened to be in the heavens at the moment were certainly smiling. In fact, they were probably doubled up in laughter at his current predicament. You could always count on the gods to be sensitive, caring beings until you got yourself in trouble.

"And Angua found this… Clue at the scene of the crime."

"Yes, Commander. We took it in for investigation."

Vimes paused. "You are aware that they are pants, yes, Captain?"

"Certainly, sir."

"Quite odd pants, though."

"I agree, sir.

"They're blue."

"Strange color for pants, sir."

"I mean, what fellow in their right mind would go around in blue pants? Black is perfectly acceptable, brown I can deal with; even green is permissible at certain occasions. But blue? What sane creature dresses in blue?"

"I couldn't say, sir."

Vimes gave the pants a long, hard stare. He hated Clues. They got in the way of solving a crime in the same way that words got in the way of books. (3)

Carrot speculated. "I can't see how anybody could get comfortable in them, sir. The material is very rough. And there's something sinister about them, sir."

Vimes glared, disbelieving. "Sinister? How can pants be sinister?"

"Sergeant Angua agrees with me, sir. I think, sir, they're not quite like normal pants."

Vimes made an attempt to keep an open mind, something extremely difficult for a Commander of the Watch with a grumpy demeanor at three in the morning who wanted to get home to his wife before she sought him out with a frying pan. "You mean, like the difference between breeches and ruby tights?" he ventured cautiously. (4)

"Possibly, sir." Carrot looked thoughtful.

Vimes sat back, and sighed. "Who have you assigned to the case?" he asked, wearily and heavily.

"Angua and I, sir, and Cheery. And Reg. And Fred and Nobby." Carrot peered at his commander. "Would you like to work the case, sir?"

Vimes sighed again. "Carrot, I'm a desk officer now. According to society, dukes aren't meant to be running around the streets at night trying to find murderers. And I really should be spending more time with Sybil and Young Sam." He propped his feet on the desk. "Intriguing as the case may be, I'm old, Captain, and fat from all this paperwork. Find someone else."

"Yessir." Carrot left the room wisely, something he usually didn't have the common sense to do. His Grace Sir Samuel Vimes, Duke of Ankh-Morpork and Commander of the Watch, was left alone, staring out the window at the sludgy rain.

"I'm a desk officer now," he repeated, at decibels even a suspicious housewife (5) couldn't hear. "A desk officer. I need some coffee."

* * *

Let the mind's eye zoom out from the scene in the Commander's office to a different scene, on the other side of the city. Pass by Sator Square with its shouts of fruits and vegetables and sausages inna bun, float over the steaming fumes of the Ankh River, and zoom in again at the elegant architecture of the Guild of Assassins. Now zoom in farther. No, farther than that. There you go. Deep in the dungeons of the Guild, wicked plans are forming. 

"Yew left it for der Watch on purpose?" came a booming voice. The Assassin responsible for this little meeting had had some trouble figuring out how to get a seven-foot hunk of silicone into the Guild unnoticed. However, the Assassin took pride in problem solving. Now the only trouble was getting the troll to stay quiet.

"Shh, Iggy, not so loud! Yes, we left it for the Watch, and they took it as planned."

"So what's the next step, bawss?" came a wheedling, nasal voice that set even Iggy's lichen on end the first time he heard it. "What are we gonna do naow?"

The Assassin's eyes glinted with a feverish light. "Find someone who can sew. That shouldn't be too hard. There is a Guild of Seamstresses here, right?"

Iggy coughed. Loudly. "Er, dem seamstresses aren't egzactly—"

"We'll kidnap a seamstress. And then…" the Assassin paused for dramatic effect. There was a slight, silent pause as the occupants of the basement wondered politely whether the Assassin had forgotten what to say.

"You was saying, about that seamstress…" Iggy offered helpfully.

"Yes, yes," the Assassin snapped. "We will kidnap a seamstress, and be written in the books of fashion as long as the Ankh runs."

Another pause.

"Well, der river don't egzactly run, boss. It, er, _strolls, _boss."

"Shut up, Iggy."

"Yes, boss."

"When does we find the seamstress, bawss?" whined the nasally voice in the dark.

"Soon," said the Assassin. "Very soon. But first, there is someone we need to inhume. His name… is Vetinari."

There was another long pause.

"How come we have to inhume der Patrician?" asked Iggy the troll, scratching his head.

"Because I said so," the Assassin snapped.

* * *

"Pants," said Vimes thoughtfully, twirling a pen around in his fingers. "Was this Tartarus fellow wearing his pants?"

* * *

Elsie wept into the blankets, feeling extreme pity on herself. 

She'd tried so hard to make her mother proud, but no matter how many sweaters she crocheted, how many embroidery contests she'd won, how many knitting circles she'd joined, her mother was never completely satisfied. She'd examine Elsie's latest masterpiece with a critical eye, and comment on something she's seen just like it at one of the imaginary Ankh-Morpork seamstress's galas. Elsie had grown up firmly believing—no, _knowing _that she was destined to become one of the great seamstresses of the Guild, and now had traveled through mind-numbing endless cabbages to find the only type of sewing she'd do in the Guild would be patching up the undergarments men had torn off.

She felt helpless, now, in an inn with little money to pay rent. The kind old Mrs. Cake, after she'd turned off her premonition, had offered her a room upstairs in the humble little inn, half dollar a night, very cheap and very comfortable. Unsure of anywhere else to say Elsie had agreed, though she couldn't help being disconcerted by the feeling that it was really the Hat that was doing the talking.

Her sewing kit was strewn on the floor where she had left it, looking as miserable as she felt. Sniffing, she lifted her head and looked at it, speculatively.

An hour later, having sobbed and cried and sniveled as much as she would allow a practical lady like herself to do, she was busy at work transforming simple cloth into works of art. She wouldn't let the lack of a Guild upset her Talent. She knew she had Talent. It was something everyone in her village had said. Talent was one of the few virtues she did possess.

Unfortunately for her, she also possessed Beauty, something certainly useful except in cases where you couldn't turn it off.

* * *

(1) Carrot's youthful body kept a lot of people from doing a lot of things. Things like beating him over the head with a stick, sticking a dagger in his chest and throwing his body on the Ankh. If everybody had a youthful body like Carrot's the crime rate would be absolutely eliminated. 

(2) Actually, if Sybil had her way Vimes wouldn't work at all. However, considering the circumstances, eight o'clock was permissible. Eight oh one was not. Anything later than eight thirty and you were looking at an early bedtime for a week, mister, and no allowance either. Sybil's attitudes towards her husband and teenagers were pretty much one and the same.

(3) Words really do get in the way of books. It's a well-known fact. Not to mention those bloody metaphors mucking everything up like rabies in a dog kennel.

(4) Vimes was quite familiar with both breeches and ruby tights. Needless to say, one of them he'd rather not be quite so familiar with. Torture in the chambers on the Omnian Exquisition was okay. Ruby tights were not.

(5) There is no being on the history on the Disc with better hearing than a suspicious housewife. Believe me on this.

* * *

Author's Note: This wasn't the best of the best as far as chapters go, but I think it was decent considering my mind is as numb as a toad in liquid nitrogen. Do you like my wonderful similes? I do need to further develop Elsie Mags, someone was kind enough to point that out to me and I shall work on it in the future. For now I'm focusing on getting the plot well developed and all my characters at least in the scene. Thanks so much for all reviewers who have supported me! See you soon, I hope! 

(KC)


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